


The Guest of Montreuil-sur-Mer

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Series: The Stations of Jean Valjean [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Madeleine Era, Montreuil-sur-Mer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men are condemned to live as lesser beings. These men must present themselves to local magistrates.</p><p>Madeleine is a magistrate. He receives a guest newly arriving in Montreuil-sur-Mer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guest of Montreuil-sur-Mer

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Madeleine meeting a paroled convict has been swirling in my mind for many months. This is the character study that resulted.

**Montreuil-sur-Mer**

“Monsieur le Maire.”

The harshness—it was the first thing he noticed—caught him by surprise. The way those words were spoken, the edge in each syllable… it was as if he was back there again, the smell of sweat all around him and the sting of salt in the air, sharp blades that whipped a further punishment onto his already striped back.

Madeleine’s nightmares had always been of the south.

The second thing he noticed was how unprepared he was for this encounter.

“I am to show you this,” the harsh man said, jolting his mind back to the present. His consciousness was slower to follow; the sound of waves still rang in his ears. _There was no escape. He tried. Four times. Each time a failure. Recaptured. Always returned to that miserable place! Despicable and soulless place. He was a dead man walking among other dead men there. He was –_

He was inside the mairie. He was safe. The fabric that fitted over his skin was fine and smooth instead of ragged and coarse. The townsfolk here treated him with respect. No one dared question his lack of a past; none thought to. He was safe. He was safe. He was safe.

The man extended a hand.

Oh. _Oh._

But of course. He was mayor now, wasn’t he? The magistrate of Montreuil-sur-Mer, the one to whom men like this one were required to present themselves. This town that was flourishing under his care wasn’t too far away from Paris. For a traveler unfamiliar with the north, it would not be unusual to have journeyed too far past the big city and veered too closely toward the sea. He wondered why he’d never considered the possibility before.

“What is your name…” Madeleine asked, ignoring the yellow ticket of leave directed his way. The man was contorted into an awkward bow. He didn’t meet his eyes. Eye contact was defiance, and defiance was punishable by blows and lashes. “…Monsieur?”

Shoulders tensed.

“My name is Madeleine,” he continued as if the silence wasn’t stretching too long, or the air around them not growing too thick. He annunciated his name clearly. Madeleine. He was Madeleine now. Surely he had played this role long enough to convince even himself? “Many of the people here prefer to address me simply as M. Madeleine. I shall be glad of it if you do the same.”

He prodded when the man did not return the favor, “And how may I address you, Monsieur?”

Instead of answering, the man stretched his arm further out, and Madeleine sighed. What would he find on the yellow ticket? The man’s name printed in small letters, yes. But the words “convict” and “dangerous man” would be written in a larger, bolder hand, as if reminding those in authority required to approve this man’s presence in their town that once someone was branded a criminal, he would never again be human.

“Do you know what it says?” he asked, and this, at last, drew a reaction from the man, who shook his head.

“It says you have been paroled, by the authority of the crown. It says that as long as you keep the stipulations of your parole, you shall remain free. You are free, Monsieur. Free to begin a new life, to make something good of your years ahead.”

The man’s face twisted into something horrible. “You lie!”

He had blue eyes, Madeleine noticed. Blue, angry eyes that harbored long years of suffering. These were eyes of a man crushed not only by exhausting labor but by injustice. Through them, Madeleine could see into a soul that had been reduced to nothing but hatred.

He may well have been staring at his former self.

“I did not –”

But he did lie, did he not? He had not yet forgotten—would never forget—the moment when Prisoner 24601 was released into cruel reality. Within hours, what illusion of freedom he believed he’d been given was promptly shattered. His yellow ticket was a more punishing brand than any mark left on his skin. It closed every door to reformation, leaving the path back to the bagne as the singular, inevitable option. If there was no Bishop, he would be back at Toulon now, he was sure of it.

“Why do you not take this?” the man demanded. _You would know my name if you just look_. “See here. It says I’m a fraud. I faked bank notes. I was violent and tried to resist arrest. They gave me six years. At the bagne, I fought with the others. They put me in double chains and added two more years. That makes me a dangerous man. It says I’m a dangerous man, doesn’t it? Why aren’t you taking this?”

Madeleine looked at the man calmly, willing him to see that his confession did not change his regard for him in the slightest. It must have been more than a week since this man was released. Dark brown hair was beginning to grow on his shorn head. Patches of grime and dust covered tattered rags that could barely be called clothes. Five days’ journey, maybe six? Montreuil-sur-Mer was far from the south.

One look at the man and Madeleine knew that he had been turned away by every baker and innkeeper at every town. And yet here he was at Montreuil, a free man still, not yet a parole breaker.

Already, this man standing before him was better than he.

“Do you have a place to stay?” he asked as gently as he could. He had room and board to offer, could even use his authority as mayor to compel the town’s innkeeper to let the man a room. As long as it was within his power, he would see to it that no paroled convict in his town would be denied basic human dignity.

The man threw his head back and laughed. “And where would I stay, at the stable, in the town jail? You pretend to be kind, _Mayor_ , but I know the likes of you. I already passed through six other towns. If I sleep out in the fields, people will come hunting me with their rifles. If I sleep on the streets, I will wake up soaked in piss. Will you piss on me too? I reckon your piss would smell the foulest, with all your rich man’s food and drink.”

Madeleine frowned. “Monsieur –”

“Enough! I did my task. I showed you my yellow ticket. I will go buy food—I have money. I earned it with my labor—I will eat and rest. Then I will leave. And your town will be rid of the _convict_.”

“Wait!” Madeleine called, but the man had turned on his heels and stomped out of the office. His abrupt spin-around whipped a puff of air on Madeleine’s face.

It was only then did Jean Valjean ( _Madeleine_. He was Madeleine now.) realize that his forehead was covered in sweat.

-

Sundown brought the familiarity of walking along the humble path that led to the parish church. It also brought the unwelcome sight of Inspector Javert, who watched him daily from the shadows. It was as if his journey from the mairie to the church signified a pilgrim’s unburdening of his sins as he approached the holy shrine. The hunter was waiting for the fraud to shed the coil of Madeleine to reveal the suspected fugitive within.

But tonight, those eyes were set on another. “Monsieur le Maire,” Javert approached him with a bow, “it has come to my attention that a dangerous man has entered Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

He halted his steps. “Oh?”

“This man is a convict. Released at most two weeks ago. His appearance is that of a beast. His head is shorn. He walks with a drag on his right leg. He is utterly filthy.”

 _He is a monster_ , Madeleine heard, and suppressed the urge to ball his twitching fingers into fists. He breathed deeply to steady his composure.

“I know the man you are talking about. He presented himself to me at the mairie today. He showed me his parole papers and conducted himself properly. He poses no danger.”

“Surely you did not tell this criminal that he is welcome to stay in this town!” Javert protested. “I saw his depravity with my own eyes. He loitered outside of the boulangerie even after the owner had demanded him to leave. I had to shoo him away. If I had not been nearby, God only knows what damage he would have inflicted on both the owner and his shop.”

Madeleine frowned. “Inspector, you presume that this man intended to rob the store. Even if you are correct, thinking about an act is not a crime. The man has done no wrong.”

“Not yet.”

“You do not know that! I happen to know that this man has money. He earned it during his imprisonment. If he wants food, he would buy it.”

Javert dipped his head, and Madeleine wasn’t certain if it was contempt he saw on the inspector’s face—the ever-present sentiment that he hid so well but could never truly conceal, the fine instinct of a hound. “Forgive me, Monsieur. A gentleman like you wouldn’t understand. I know men like him. They live only to deceive and will never change. It is only a matter of time.”

Madeleine’s frown deepened. “Are you implying that I should cast him out of Montreuil?” he asked, and the ensuing seconds of silence was answer enough.

“No, Javert, I will not force the man out of here.”

“But Monsieur –”

“He has done no wrong.”

“You cannot know that he won’t!”

“And you cannot know that he will.”

“I know convicts, Monsieur. They can –”

“Never change?” Madeleine finished for him. “You say this with such confidence, but I will not accept man’s judgment over God’s, even yours. Our Lord extends mercy and commands that we forgive seventy seven times. Surely a second chance is not excessive?” He held up a hand. “Enough, Inspector. If you would not listen to reason, then I order you not to interfere with this man for as long as he remains a guest in this town. Speak no more of this. Are we clear?”

Javert’s face was red and his fists were clenched. He looked like a dog commanded to heel and was fighting its instincts not to bare its teeth and leap for the throat. For several heartbeats, Madeleine wondered if he would revolt. But the tense body jerked itself into a bow, followed by an unwilling “Yes, Monsieur,” and swift footfalls then carried Javert into the evening’s growing darkness, leaving Madeleine standing alone on the road, finally giving into his impulse to dig his nails into his palms.

-

It was too late to go to mass, so Madeleine walked toward the town center. He was unsurprised to find a shadowed figure lingering outside of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s only inn.

He approached the man that the town had shunned and offered him a loaf of bread he’d newly purchased from the boulangerie.

“Here. You are hungry. You should eat.”

The man eyed the bread as if it would turn into a snake and bite him. But after some moments of staring, hunger prevailed and he snatched the entire loaf out of Madeleine’s hand.

Madeleine stood while the man devoured his only meal of the day. It didn’t take long.

“Come, let us sit,” he said when the man had finished, gesturing at the wall of the inn. He sank down to lean against the stone exterior.

The man remained motionless, his eyes darting from the mayor’s face to his outer coat and trousers that were now soiled with street grime. Madeleine looked up at him and smiled. Warily, the man lowered himself and settled next to him.

Madeleine leaned his head back against the stones, placing an arm over a propped knee. The cuff of his outer coat drew back a little, but it was too dark for the man to see the uneven skin and scars there. He felt strangely unconcerned.

“Toulon?” he asked, though he already suspected he knew the answer. He did not think he had ever met the man before.

There was a pause.

“Nîmes.”

“Ah, Nîmes. It is far away from here.”

“I have no choice. I am to report to Paris.”

“That is good. Paris would be more forgiving.” He added: “Greater anonymity.”

“Many people like me are already there. They will recognize me.”

Yes, of course. He had heard whispers among the prisoners of Toulon about continuing their lives of crime upon their release and arrival to Paris. Former convicts recognized and recruited one another from the streets. This man would have countless opportunities to further commit fraud. Paris’s network of unrepentant sinners offered acceptance, productivity. Dignity.

_I faked bank notes._

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“You said you do not know what your yellow ticket contains. And yet you forged bank notes. That would require basic knowledge of the letters.”

The man tensed beside him. “You have no business –”

“I mean no offense… it was merely a curiosity –”

“A _curiosity_! So the truth comes out at last!”

“No, listen! Please – I apologize.”

He was doing everything wrong. He couldn’t get the town to accept the man, couldn’t dissuade his own police inspector from casting his suspicions. And now he was spitting into the face of a downtrodden man, picking on his already injured pride.

The man narrowed his eyes, assessing him. He didn’t run away, Madeleine realized, nor did he strike after being insulted. He still had time to right his wrong.

He let out a long breath. “I have misspoken, Monsieur. I am truly sorry. What I wanted to say is this: To know how to read and write is a blessing. You will be given opportunities that others will not have. You will be able to build a respectable new life for yourself.”

For a long time, the man did not respond, and Madeleine wondered if he had pushed too far, failed too deeply. He could not get through to this man. He was no Bishop. Bishop Bienvenu Myriel gave silver and bought souls. Madeleine, on the other hand, offered bread only to demand the man’s secret as payment.

He lifted his eyes heavenward. The sky was not yet dark enough to bring out the stars. The parish priest should be finishing the evening mass soon. No matter. He would confess his failures tomorrow. Tonight, he belonged here. Convicts had no place in churches, after all.

Next to him, the man made a snorting sound as if finally coming to a conclusion about him and finding him sorely lacking. “I am a fraud. Frauds deceive. Is this so hard to understand?”

“Anyone can lead an honest life if he so desires,” Madeleine replied without hesitation. “With the grace of God, you do not have to remain a fraud.”

Laughter echoed off the stone wall and pierced the still, silent air. It was unpleasant, like the screeching of vultures.

“I am beyond God’s salvation, _Mayor_. And you are a fool. I thought you had the good sense to have your police dog follow me around. But you didn’t order him to do it, did you?

“Do you know, that if it weren’t for that dog, I wouldn’t need your bread? The boulangerie was busy and the owner was alone. I had the perfect opportunity to slip into the back of the store to relieve him of his excess bread and cakes.

“Don’t look so appalled, _Mayor_. How did you think I kept myself from starving all this time? When all the other mayors and every owner of every store turned me away? They did not want my money! Pah. I know how to steal into kitchens and steal food. No one noticed. Not a single worker knew anything was missing. Payback, I say. Refuse me and my money? Well. I ate your bread for free instead.”

Madeleine stared as the man screamed at the boulangerie owner in his mind and tasted the rise of bitterness in his throat. So Javert was right. This man was unreformed. He had stolen in every town. This made him a repeat offender, a criminal devoid of a conscience. A man who could never change.

But if this man had spoken truth, then had he not first tried to act rightly? Was he not forced to steal only after he was refused the opportunity to purchase food like a respectable citizen?

Had he, Jean Valjean, many years ago, not also offered to pay to sleep in the horses’ stable, only to have all men turn their backs on him? And he was all the more reprehensible. _He_ was the repeat offender who spat mercy in its face and stole from a saint and a boy.

Jean Valjean would be back in Toulon if God had not saved him from perdition. To change this man’s future, too, would require a new life, a changed heart. What would the Bishop do if he were in Madeleine’s place? Saints knew how to do the right thing. But he was no saint, and Madeleine knew he had already failed long before the man had set foot in Montreuil, for he wasn’t qualified to pull souls out of darkness and into the light.

“Do you have nothing to say?” the man sneered. “Are you too _merciful_ to summon your police dog to arrest me? Too much of a coward to order me out of your town?

“Ah, perhaps you think I slipped up just now, telling you of my thefts. Ha! I don’t intend to get arrested. Your police dog is patrolling by the docks. I will be gone by the time he gets here. Anonymity, you say. No one will be able to find me when I am in Paris.”

The man pushed away from the wall to face him, a terrible grimace splitting his face. “Or will you attempt to arrest me yourself, _Mayor_? Will you try to hold me down until your dog arrives? I’ll have you know, I’ve won many fights at Nîmes. But who knows? If by chance you win, then you can condemn me back to the bagne. You would take pleasure in this, no? Should we try?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord: “You must never return to that despicable, soulless place!”

Even in the darkness, he could see the man blinking at him, startled. His sneer faltered.

Madeleine breathed in deeply, his thoughts racing. The man was unarmed. He knew he was the stronger one and could easily take him down. But capturing the man would send him back to Nîmes—he would never wish such a fate on anyone. Or he could dismiss the man’s confession, condone the breaking of the law. But if Javert caught wind of this, then both this man and Jean Valjean would be condemned forever…

The decision came to him like a flash of clarity illuminating his mind. No, he would not turn the man in or deny his guilt.

“You did not steal in this town,” Madeleine said, keeping his tone even. “The bread you ate tonight is from me. I do not expect—nor require—payment for it. You did not cause any trouble in my town. And though I must confess that I am disturbed by your actions in other towns, here, you behaved honorably. It is sufficient evidence that you are capable of abiding by the law.” He met the man’s eyes. “I am choosing not to follow what is dictated by the penal code, for my conscience tells me this is the right thing to do. Tell me the towns you have passed through and I will send restitution to those you have robbed. I will do so discreetly and will not implicate you, on this you have my word. I will pay for your past meals, and you, Monsieur, may carry a clear conscience with you still. You remain blameless before the law. And when you reach Paris, please… if you need anything while you take the time to establish an honest life, send word to me and I will pay for it.”

The man’s eyes were wide and unreadable, darkening like the night around them. He remained for many minutes with mouth gaping, like a faun about to be run over by a wagon, frozen and unable to escape.

Then his features contorted. “What are you?” he spat, angry and irritated. “What _are_ you?” Abruptly, he stood, his body seized with a sudden bout of energy that strung him upright like a drawn bow.

“Monsieur –” Madeleine called out, coaxed, but it was too late.

The man ran.

-

The next day, Madeleine went to the mairie after his usual morning visit to the factory, feeling tired after a sleepless night. While making his rounds among the factory workers, he had overheard neither news nor gossip about a strange man in town. Had the man left Montreuil-sur-Mer? He supposed it was preferable to seeing him arrested. He refused to condemn anyone back into slavery.

His eyes grew wide when he drew near to his work desk. The normally orderly surface was in disarray—someone had broken into his office. But instead of stealing what few personal items he had in here, the intruder merely used his pen and paper to leave him a note, addressed in a stiff but legible hand to The Most Honorable Monsieur Madeleine. Next to the note was a small mountain of coins— _sous_ and francs arranged in no particular order.

He picked up the note, opened it, and the corners of his lips quirked upward.

It was a list of towns and their stores. Next to the store names were scribbles of food items and their prices. Madeleine didn’t need to add up the numbers or count the coins to know that the two totals would be the same.

His joy blossomed into a full smile when he reached the last line.

_My name is Claude._


End file.
